


The Old Fashioned Way (To Make a Modern Family)

by billiethepoet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Planning, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/pseuds/billiethepoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yeah, we’d consider adoption but…” There’s a gleam in John’s eye and Sherlock has the sinking sensation that this conversation has been leading to something specific. “Mary’d like the baby to be yours.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old Fashioned Way (To Make a Modern Family)

**Author's Note:**

> Colossal thanks to HiddenLacuna for her lovely beta work.

“Mary wants to have a baby.” 

Sherlock hums but doesn’t look up from the eyepiece of his microscope. 

“Are you even listening?” John sinks heavily into the chair across the kitchen table from Sherlock, his tea mug clinking against the hard table top. 

Sherlock makes him wait, just an extra beat or two, before looking up. “Mary wants to have a baby. Isn’t that what couples do? Do you expect me to clutch my proverbial pearls because you’re not yet married?” 

John scoffs. “God no, nothing so pedestrian as that from you.” John’s grin falters and he scrubs a hand across his face. “But it’s just… I can’t.”

“You don’t want to.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Honestly, John, it’s what couples do.”

“Sherlock, I mean I **can’t**.”

He finally stops and actually looks at John. John looks bemused but not embarrassed. He certainly doesn’t look ill and his service injury was never something that would threaten his ability to reproduce. There’s only one option that remains. “Ah, a vasectomy.” 

“Yeah, early in my military days. I didn’t want to leave a trail of little Watsons across three continents.” 

Sherlock can’t help but roll his eyes at that. “A donor then, or adoption. Mary wouldn’t be opposed.” 

“Yeah, we’d consider adoption but…” There’s a gleam in John’s eye and Sherlock has the sinking sensation that this conversation has been leading to something specific. “Mary’d like the baby to be yours.” 

It takes longer for Sherlock’s brain to come back online than when John asked him to be his best man.

***************

_To: Mary Morstan_  
Is there a clinic you prefer to use? SH  


_To: Sherlock Holmes_  
I was hoping we could do this the old fashioned way. 

Sherlock types out his response immediately. Then erases it and tries for something more polite, but his mobile pings again. 

_To: Sherlock Holmes_  
John wants to play along too. 

He erases the polite response and takes three deep breaths to calm his racing heart. 

_Group Message_  
 _To: Mary Morstan, John Watson_  
When? SH 

***************

The decide on Baker Street. It feels like home to all of them and they’ll be comfortable there. Sherlock’s not sure he could have taken off his coat in John and Mary’s suburban home, much less everything else. Though, technically, he supposes he doesn’t have to take off anything to have sex with Mary and John but they’d probably appreciate it.

Sherlock is late returning from Bart’s. It’s not deliberate per se but he does keep finding just one more thing to try or to document as the knots in his stomach tighten and the clock ticks past their meeting time. 

He’s not offensively late, not for Sherlock anyway, in the end. John still has a key, will always have a key to Baker Street if Sherlock has anything to say about it, and he and Mary are already on the sofa with an open bottle of wine on the coffee table between them. 

Sherlock pauses in the sitting room doorway, hands mid-way through pulling off his scarf and coat shrugged off one shoulder. His breath is coming as fast as if he’d hoofed it from Bart’s instead of taking a cab. 

“Hello. Have you eaten? There’s a sandwich in the fridge.” John’s smile is open and genuine. There’s no trace of nervousness or awkwardness in John’s gaze. 

“Sandwich?” 

“We brought dinner in case you were late.” Mary’s voice is also calm and gives away no hint of anxiety. How do they do this? 

“I’ve eaten,” Sherlock lies. John looks skeptical but Mary knows the truth and doesn’t give him away. 

This awkwardness is tedious. Sherlock shucks his coat and scarf, tossing them on John’s chair as he walks into the sitting room. He steps over the coffee table and sits on it, forcing John and Mary to shift their knees to either side to accommodate his invasion. 

“Are there rules to this? Should we map out who goes where? Maybe draw a diagram?”

Mary leans forward, cups her hand around his knee, and cuts directly through his veil of sarcasm. “Sherlock, it’s fine to be nervous. This is something new to all of us.” 

Sherlock keeps his eyes resolutely focused on the sofa between the two of them. He refuses to look at John. He’s learned not to give away the secrets of those he cares about so easily. 

But Mary doesn’t miss a trick. “Okay, not entirely new to John.” 

He flicks his eyes back to Mary’s face and the pieces add up before his eyes. “Oh for God’s sa-”

“-or entirely new to me,” Mary finishes for him. 

Now John leans forward and pulls Sherlock’s attention from Mary. “But you’re new to both of us. And that’s important.” 

Sherlock breaks eye contact with John, looks down and runs his hand through his hair. “So you expect me to go into a situation which is entirely new to me, as a third party, with no information-”

“Wrong,” Mary interrupts. “You have loads of information. All the information you need. You _know_ us.” 

Sherlock inhales, exhales, and focuses. He runs through what he knows about John, deduced from years of watching several failed and, ultimately, one successful relationship. He has less information about Mary but what he does know about her, about her heart and about her body, is burned just as deeply into his psyche. He inhales again.

“Yes, you’re right.” 

Mary smiles at that and leans back, giving Sherlock an opening so obvious he wants to snap at her for it. Instead he leans forward, grasps the back of John’s neck, and brings their mouths together with force. 

John grasps Sherlock’s biceps, pulling him forward slightly, and kisses back through a smile. 

Sherlock has thought about this, before Mary and after. Sometimes with Mary involved and sometimes with just Mary involved. Women have never been his preference but, if he’s being completely honest with himself, _people_ have never been his preference. Mary has snuck in around all of his defenses. John’s too. 

John pulls back. “Jesus. You kiss as good as you look.” 

“That doesn’t make sense John.”

“Shut up.” John leans back in and kisses him again. It’s a shorter, harder kiss this time but just as passionate. 

When John pulls back the second time, Mary has obviously snuggled closer to his side, her breasts pushed up against his arm. She presses soft kisses to the side of John’s jaw before leaning forward and covering Sherlock’s lips. 

Mary’s mouth is softer than John’s. She bites gently at his bottom lip and he gasps. He can hear John hum in approval but it sounds very far away. He cups her face with one hand, running a thumb along her jawline, and wraps the other hand around her shoulders. He comes into contact with John’s steady, warm hand rubbing circles between Mary’s shoulder blades and the feeling of _togetherness_ , of what they are about to do and to create together, staggers him. 

He breaks away, but keeps his hand on Mary’s face and his fingers pressed to John’s against her back. “My room. We should retire to my room.” 

John is the first up from the sofa. “Yes, I think we should.” He gives a shaky laugh. “It’s way sexier watching you two kiss than I imagined it would be.” 

Mary is the next to rise, pulling Sherlock up with her. “So you’ve been imagining this, then?” Her voice is light and teasing, one of the ways Sherlock likes her best. John kisses her deeply. Until this point, the actual sex they were about to undergo had been an abstract concept to Sherlock. But he catches a glimpse of their tongues sliding against each other and feels a throb of lust twitching through his cock. 

They break apart and grin up at him. They have the same naughty, knowing smiles as they each take a hand and pull him toward the open bedroom door. They are perfect. Perfect for him. 

In his bedroom, with the curtains pulled shut and a lamp on low, Sherlock’s anxiety settles back in. He shucks his jacket, hanging it and sliding it back into his wardrobe. It’s easier to stick to his routine; he finds comfort for his jangling nerves there. 

When he turns to face the bed, Mary has settled into the middle, legs tucked delicately underneath her. He watches for a moment as her bare feet flex against his duvet. John is still standing next to the bed, watching him. 

“You’re sure this is all right?” 

“Yes.” And he is sure. Very sure. Sherlock wants nothing more to be in the midst of a naked, sweaty pile with these two people. The two people he cares about most in all the world. He’s just not sure how to get from here to there. “It’s...it’s the moments of transition that trouble me.” 

John straightens his back, clenching his fists at his sides and rubbing his thumbs against the side of his fingers. Ever the soldier, is his John. “Right, well, let’s get the ball rolling shall we?” He glances at Mary and she waves a hand in Sherlock’s direction. 

Before Sherlock can completely process what John is about to do, he’s on his knees at Sherlock’s feet. His hands are steady, not even the hint of a shake or tremor, while he undoes Sherlock’s flies. Sherlock is half hard from the anticipation alone when John pulls him out.

John’s tongue licking all the way from the crease of his balls to the tip of his foreskin quickly fills out the rest of his cock. He must moan as John pushes back his foreskin. He must because he hears it, and he knows it’s his voice, even if he doesn’t know he’s doing it. 

The sound piques Mary’s interest. She’s sitting high on her knees and leaning forward with flushed cheeks to get a better view. Sherlock files away the effect of sound on Mary’s arousal. It’s the last deliberate intellectual pursuit he’s capable of, since John’s mouth closes around the head of his cock a fraction of a second later. 

John sucks hard on the sensitive head of Sherlock’s cock while slowly stroking his shaft. Every few strokes he takes as much of Sherlock’s cock as he can into his mouth in one long pull before retreating to lavish the head with his tongue. Then the pattern starts all over again. If Sherlock didn’t already know better, he would have proclaimed John a genius at deduction because this is perfect. On John’s next downward pass, Sherlock tangles his fingers in John’s hair and holds his head down for just a moment. John moans and grips Sherlock’s thigh. His previous assessment of perfection is overwritten with this moment. 

He hears Mary moving about on the bed, hears her clothes rustling, but doesn’t pay attention until she gently calls for John. 

“John, get him undressed and bring him over here.” 

John looks up, and looks wrecked. His lips are slick and swollen, his hair mussed from Sherlock’s fingers, and his pupils are wide in the soft light of the dimly-lit room. He slides Sherlock’s trousers and pants to the floor before he stands. John begins work on his own belt and flies, hands not as steady this time, and Sherlock casts a glance to Mary over his shoulder. 

She’s already naked, leaning against his headboard with pale legs stretched out in front of her and grinning like the cat that caught the canary. Sherlock makes quick work of the rest of his clothes, leaving them puddled around his shoes next to the wardrobe. John’s clothes are in similar disarray on the floor and the only thing that can pull Sherlock’s eyes away from Mary is the promise of finally seeing John Watson’s cock. 

And it does not disappoint. It’s thick and strong and surrounding by a nest of dark blond hair. Sherlock’s mouth waters at the sight but John is already pulling him toward the bed, following Mary’s instructions, and Sherlock hopes there will be time in this for him to become intimately acquainted with that part of John. 

Instead, Mary pulls him down on the bed to lie alongside her. She kisses him and Sherlock gets caught up in it. It takes several minutes to realize that Mary’s quiet gasps and louder moans are not because of Sherlock alone. John has crawled between her legs and the wet, sucking noises are the most deliciously obscene things he’s ever heard. Apparently, Mary is not alone in her reaction to the sounds the three of them can make together. 

“He’s very good with his mouth,” Mary whispers when she pulls Sherlock’s lips to her throat. He kisses, sucks, and, remember their first kiss in the sitting room, bites gently at the edge of her collar bone. He watches as that move causes her to buck her hips into John’s mouth, and so he does it again. 

He continues to suck and kiss and nibble on Mary’s neck and shoulder. He works his way down until his tongue swipes across her nipple. She brings a hand down to hold his head there and Sherlock sucks while Mary arches and keens. He squeezes her other breast in his hand and she groans “Harder!” This time it’s Sherlock whose hips surge forward to grind his still-hard cock against Mary’s leg and his fingers tighten around her breast. 

It’s only a few more moments before Mary is pushing both of their heads away. “Stop. Stop. Stop. I don’t want to come yet.” Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are squeezed closed. She looks on the absolute edge of self-control. Sherlock has never seen her look more beautiful. 

Before his brain can truly kick back in, John is crowding against him. Which is probably the point. John rolls Sherlock onto his back, one of his legs falling off the side of the bed, and straddles his hips. John entwines his hands with Sherlock’s, stretched above Sherlock’s head, and rolls his hips, dragging his cock against Sherlock’s in a way that is sloppy and not perfectly aligned. Sherlock can feel Mary pressed against his side, still struggling to regain control of her breath, and thinks _Yes, yes, yes. This. Always this._

John continues to rock against him and it chafes a bit but Sherlock wouldn’t end this for the world. Sherlock squeezes their palms together each time John drags his cock back across Sherlock’s. John lowers himself to kiss Sherlock’s chest and neck, to whisper declarations of love and want against his skin. 

Sherlock nudges the top of John’s head with his chin, desperately trying to get John to kiss him. He doesn’t want to let go of their clenched hands. It would be so much easier if John could just read his mind the way Mary seems to do. 

_Mary._

He turns his head and she’s rolled to her side and propped up on one elbow watching them. Sherlock stretches his neck toward her and she swoops in to kiss him. Sherlock gets lost in the roll of John’s hips and the slide of Mary’s tongue. He finds himself balanced on a delicate point, a fulcrum, where everything is bliss but he’s in no danger of tipping over the edge. He’s not sure how long he rests there, between the two of them and entirely at the mercy of his own pleasure, but it’s John’s voice that pulls him out of it. 

“Sherlock? I’d really like to watch you fuck my fiancée now.” 

“Yes. God yes.” Sherlock scrambles up as John retreats to the foot of the bed. Mary’s already settled on her back, arms stretched out in invitation. 

Sherlock settles over her and his cock rubs between her labia, where she’s been made slick by her own excitement and by John’s tongue. He stays there, sliding back and forth, caught up in his own bliss once again, until Mary reaches down and guides the head of his cock to her entrance. 

“Fuck me already. Jesus, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sinks in to the hilt in one slow thrust. His arms feel like rubber and he has to struggle not to lock his elbows. Mary writhes beneath him, her hands gripping his ribcage. He pulls back out and slides his hips forward, again as slowly as he can without losing his balance. 

“God, John, he feels so good. He’s going to drive me crazy.” 

All of a sudden, as if Sherlock has forgotten him, John is back in the picture. Sherlock watches as John’s hand caresses through Mary’s hair and she stretches up into the touch. He can’t look at John. That would be too much. But his thrusts do go faster. Mary wraps her legs around his waist and there’s a hard slap of his thighs against Mary’s arse. She gasps and urges him on with the squeeze of her knees and the pull of her hands at his shoulders. 

He continues to pick up speed and Mary grows louder and more demanding beneath him. Her hips thrust in time with his and he can feel his orgasm approaching. 

“Ah… Mary… John… I’m almost…” Sherlock struggles to give them a warning but Mary doesn’t let him get away that easily. 

“No! Not yet, you don’t.” She clamps her legs more firmly around him and squeezes with her inner muscles, which does not produce the desired effect at all. Quite the opposite actually. Sherlock has to fight harder to remain in control. 

He’s concentrating on not moving, on not looking at either Mary or John, when he feels John’s blunt fingertips brush through the curls at the base of his cock. Sherlock’s head whips toward John. 

John, who is now pressing and flicking his middle finger against Mary’s clit and stroking his own cock with his other hand, looks back at him. “You can come, Sherlock. I’ve got her.” 

Sherlock can barely force his hips to move. Between the pressure of Mary’s cunt and the intensity of John’s gaze, he feels locked down. But he manages two, no three, more hard but shallow thrusts and then he’s coming. Coming so deep and hard into Mary that he feels as if something vital has been ripped from him. Maybe it has. 

Mary is still writhing and panting when John gently nudges at Sherlock’s shoulder. He rolls off, coming to rest flat on his back next to Mary again with one long leg over the side of the bed. Mary scoots her upper body toward him so she is practically laying on his shoulder when John begins to fuck her. 

It’s hard and faster than Sherlock did and Mary is immediately quivering and gasping. She pulls Sherlock’s hand to her breast and he does his best to squeeze and tweak her nipple but he still feels boneless, like liquid. 

It must be what she needs because she’s arching up, practically shouting, “I’m coming! John, I’m coming! Oh Sherlock!” Her shouts dissolve into wordless noise as John keeps pounding into her. 

“Yeah, oh God, Mary. I’m fucking him right into you. Sherlock and me. Our come is going to be so deep inside you.” And then John’s shoulders hunch up and his hips go still. He stays like that for a few moments, emptying himself completely, while Mary struggles to catch her breath. 

Sherlock let’s his eyes fall closed. He can hear John and Mary kissing softly, can hear their breathing slow. He keeps his eyes closed as John collapses against him. John, curled warm and solid against him with an arm slung over Sherlock’s hips. His John, that he loved long before he even knew how to love. He mourns that he didn’t get to spend more time with John’s body. That he didn’t get to lavish attention on the curve of John’s cock or the muscles of his back. At least he had them both for tonight. _Except…_ Sherlock’s eyes shoot open with a sharp inhalation. 

“The rate of conception after one session of intercourse is low; no higher than seven to eight percent. It may be even lower controlling for cycle, age, and fertility of both partners.” 

“You certainly know how to make a girl feel special,” Mary murmurs from behind John’s shoulder. 

“I’m trying to tell you we may need to do this again. Repeatedly. Until conception is assured.” Sherlock tries to keep his voice from sounding snappish or from sounding hopeful, but he somehow fails on both counts. 

“Oh John, just put him out of his misery.” He doesn’t turn to look at them but he can hear Mary yawn and can image what her face looks like as she fades into a bliss softened sleep. It makes his heart ache. 

John tugs at Sherlock’s hip. “Hey, turn over.” 

Sherlock obeys without question. He rolls on his side to face John and Mary, finally opening his eyes. John also on his side, facing Sherlock. He can see the top of Mary’s head, like a blonde halo catching the light, and her arm wrapped around John’s chest as she snuggles against John’s back. 

“We know we’ll have to do this again. More than that: we want to. Really want to. For as long as you’d like to.” John’s eyes are so very blue and so very sincere. 

“This was never about having a baby.” It’s not a question and Sherlock’s not angry about it. He just feels the need to make the statement, to make sure they’re all aware of the situation as it truly is. 

Mary’s head pops up from behind his shoulder. “No. It was definitely about making a baby together. But it could be more than that.” 

“It could be about making a family. If you wanted.” John finishes for her. He looks nervous. Mary is more confident. How could she not be? How could either of them doubt what his answer would be? 

He kisses John and they are so cramped in Sherlock’s bed that he doesn’t even need to lean forward. Mary reaches out and squeezes, caresses his shoulder before pulling the duvet over all three of them. John tucks Sherlock against his shoulder where he stays, motionless, as Mary and John’s breathing evens out. Mary drops off to sleep first. Sherlock can hear her slip into slumber. John is slower to drop off but Sherlock can feel his muscles relax, his arm going slack around Sherlock’s back and his head lolling to the side, as he does. It takes Sherlock much longer to fall asleep. He plays the evening back through his head over and over. Not the sex - he’ll save those memories for later - but what John and Mary have said to him. He feels tense, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for the two people he loves to come to their senses and kick him out of his own bed. But they don’t. They stay soundly asleep and Sherlock can no longer fight his own exhaustion and drifts off beside them. He sleeps through the night for the first time in a very long time. 

Both John and Mary are still there in the morning.

************

A warm bottle hadn’t worked. The violin hadn’t worked. All that was left was to pace the floor until Gloria Scott Watson decided she was good and ready to fall asleep.

“Of course she had to inherit your sleeping patterns.” Mary is exhausted so Sherlock kisses her and sends her to bed. He kisses John and sends him along as well. It’s not the first night Sherlock’s spent spinning stories and recounting cases into the small hours of the morning to his daughter. 

He keeps her pressed close to his chest, his lips brushing against her dark curls as he whispers to her. Gloria had inherited not only his abnormal circadian rhythm but also his hair. She has Mary’s mouth and, he hopes one day, her smile as well. Gloria has no choice but to get John’s good nature. Some things can be taught and Sherlock won’t tolerate anything less. 

She’s calm but not sleeping, so Sherlock walks her on a familiar loop around the kitchen, through the door into the hall, through the sitting room, and back to the kitchen again. He tells her about the time her Papa shot a cabbie to save her Father’s life. He tells her about her Papa and Mummy’s wedding. He tells her about the hound on the moors. He tells her about the chemistry set he’s going to buy her. 

When she finally falls asleep, Sherlock carefully tucks her into the cot in what used to be John’s room but is now a bright and happy nursery. He checks the baby monitor and spends a few moments just looking at her, drinking in the shadow of her eyelashes against her cheek and her quiet huffs of breath, before soundlessly descending the stairs. 

Sherlock tucks himself in next, spooning behind Mary in their (now larger) bed. Mary doesn’t wake but pushes back against the cradle of his hips. John is flat on his back on the far side, snoring softly. He drifts off to the crackle of the baby monitor from the nightstand, wondering if Mary and John will want to have another some day.


End file.
